A Sudden Turn of Events
by LaughterNeverDies
Summary: Sometimes Sherlock Holmes can't hold back his emotions, this time, he's done trying. Please review, especially chapter 9, hope it makes sense! Sherlock/John pairing. x
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock Holmes let his head rest heavily in the cushion of his armchair, his feet dangled loosely over the head rest. He was propped upside down, measuring the amount of time it took the blood in his body to vacate his limbs and rush to his head. Sherlock was grimly interested in how long he could stand the roar in his ears before he passed out. He was doing this for a case. Actually, no, he had solved that case hours ago. Stretching the extent his personal endurance was far too fun, more importantly, he was bored.

John came home to find Sherlock upside down in his favourite armchair, asleep. He snored quietly, expelling the air from his lungs in gentle, breathy grunts. His mop of unruly curls tickled his face as they tumbled over his forehead. John rolled his eyes; Sherlock was wearing his best suit, tailored and expensive, now frustratingly wrinkled. John started towards the kitchen to get something to eat, intentionally knocking Sherlock's foot and jolting him awake. Sherlock gave an unattractive snort, and grumbled a bit as he pushed his feet off the headrest, he had bent his neck at a crooked angle as he slept, and he tried straightening the kink out. John came back into the room and huffed a laugh at his friend's face, flushed an alarming shade of vermillion. Sherlock scowled, his hands fluttered about his torso, smoothing out the creases in his shirt and scrubbing a hand over his face in an action he probably believed would help the blood drain from his cheeks and back to the rest of his body. "Is there any particular reason why you were sleeping upside down?" John asked calmly, flopping into the other chair and snapping open the paper. Sherlock sniffed haughtily, brushing off his shirt collar and running his fingertips along the edge to sharpen the fold.

"No. Not really. Does one need a reason to sleep in deviant positions these days?" He enquired, stalking to one of the large bookcases that encompassed the far wall of the flat. John noted a slight sway of wooziness in his friend's walk that could only have been brought into effect by Sherlock standing so suddenly after being upside down for that length of time. It was another small action which reminded John that Sherlock was more vulnerable than his confidence and general gait allowed others to perceive.

"One does not. Though it might do one good to get out of the flat so one does not completely lose touch with the outside world." John jested, finding humour in his friend's endearingly pompous language. Sherlock impaled him with the daggers of his glare across the room. John just smiled; Sherlock would sulk and get over it very quickly. Sherlock Holmes didn't hold grudges; reserving a certain level of antipathy in such situations. There was no room in his brain for the pettier, unnecessary emotions. "Ahah!" The exclamation of triumph came from across the room where Sherlock was teasing out the thick ring-bound folder from the shelf. John looked up with surprise as Sherlock flipped it open and thumbed through the plastic wallets with impatience to a section bookmarked with a slip of green paper. "This is what I needed." He said, drawing out the paper and folding it crisply to fit into his blazer pocket.

"What does that paper have to do with the case?" John asked.

"This man's life depends on it." Sherlock said, holding aloft a photograph.

"That's a severed foot."  
>"It's a very important severed foot."<br>"Is it his?"  
>"No, and that my dear John is what is so remarkable."<p>

"I see where you're going with this..." Sherlock's eyes lit up bright with joy at his friend's revelation.

"No, I don't, where are you going with this?" Sherlock's face darkened with a scowl.

"Scotland Yard" He said, taking off without another word, leaving John to fall behind at his heels.

Lestrade examined the photograph carefully, squinting his eyes into tightly puckered slits in an attempt to focus on the relevance of the evidence. Sherlock bounced on the balls of his feet impatiently. "So, what you're saying is, this man Truman, is innocent." Lestrade said with some deliberation.

"Ahah, you follow, excellent." Lestrade frowned as Sherlock snatched the photograph from his hands.

John glanced up just in time to see Sherlock look away. He had been staring at him with malignant interest; something flickered vaguely behind his gaze that John couldn't quite place, an emotion he should be incapable of possessing, however fleeting. But it was there all the same.

"No, Sherlock wait!" Lestrade bellowed as Sherlock strode away. "Where are you going, hey, stop!" He called, extending a long arm and latching onto the sharp shoulder blade beneath the thick coat. Sherlock whirled around,

"What? What could you possibly want you blind, thick skulled snivelling idiot? Damn it Greg! I've told you everything I know, work it out for yourself. Just for a change, so I know you're capable of such competent thought, don't be so bloody stupid!" Sherlock's face burned furiously, a scarlet blush crept across his cheeks, mottling his pale skin, creeping like a mould over his long neck and behind his ears. Lestrade kept his expression neutral and calm. His eyes were shocked, but behind that they betrayed a soft glassy sheen of sadness and pity. His arm remained locked onto Sherlock's shoulder, Sherlock shook him off roughly. John felt his breath falter and die in his chest as he watched the two men caught in their reverie.

"I think you need to go home, Sherlock." Sherlock was shaking visibly, his eyes stared unseeingly past Lestrade and tears were pricking his eyes. Sherlock nodded slowly, woodenly, he was so close to breaking down right there, but he couldn't. People were staring. People would talk. Sherlock turned; he took a sharp, brisk breath, and walked away.

Lestrade turned to John, his face was pale. John stared after his friend, then back at the Detective Inspector with a questioning look. "He has these, uh, moments, sometimes." Lestrade said, "It's never been this bad before, usually when he's under extreme stress." He trailed off, frowning a little, pressing the tips of his fingers against his temple. John wondered privately what could have caused this outburst. Sherlock had very few distractions during this case; his mind was on impeccable form, and he hadn't even eaten in two days, so it couldn't be his digestion. "That's the frailty of genius. Sometimes the mind overpowers the man." Lestrade said cleverly. He watched as John walked away, oblivious as ever.

Sherlock Holmes silently cursed himself, his brain, his heart, his body, every fibre of his being ached with embarrassment and regret. Of course he hadn't been talking about Lestrade when he said all those things. Ignorant though he was, Lestrade was a good man, who did his job to the best of his, somewhat limited, ability. Sherlock had been talking about himself, scolding his own stupidity. How would it ever work? He had driven away the only person he had ever felt close to. He resented those moments when his feelings and emotions ganged up on him like that, they broke through, he tried to shut them out for so long, but eventually they overpowered him. It was more than unfortunate that one of those moments had come when there were so many people to experience his internal anguish. It was devastating however, that one of those people was the very same who had brought about this turmoil inside of him.

John fell a few steps behind Sherlock, watching the tall, elegant man almost running now, down the street and round the corner. For the first time in his life, Sherlock Holmes was running away. John didn't know what to do; he was following, but only because he also didn't know what this new Sherlock was capable of. He didn't know this man. He wanted to comfort him, so he did the only thing he could think of. John reached out to Sherlock, his bare fingers inches away from Sherlock's gloved fist. John touched his thumb to Sherlock's knuckles, and then his forefinger found the smooth dip of his wrist. The younger man turned sharply, he was frowning, he watched as John took hold of his hand, flipping it palm up so he could lace their fingers together. It was awkward and embarrassing, Sherlock's skeletal joints curled around John's fleshy paw with uncertainty, he mapped his palm and held it keenly. John's offering of companionship was accepted, and they moved through the tide of bodies like ghosts. Their joined hands were lost in the sea of people, nobody paid any attention to the tall beautiful man holding the hand of a short stocky army doctor, and it was pleasantly gratifying to know that nobody cared if they were holding hands, because if John let go, Sherlock thought he may fall apart.

They climbed the stairs, still joined so tightly their palms pressed together. Sherlock unlocked the door and they stepped inside their flat.

Mycroft Holmes jiggled one knee where it rested atop the other. He hummed a little tune and stared fixedly at the mantelpiece where that skull leered at him with dark hollow sockets. He checked his watch again, an expensive crystal face blinked at him, the delicate rolled slivers of gold illustrated the time in roman numerals. He sighed; waiting was such a bore. He resented the legwork locating his disobedient little brother was bound to incur, much preferring to bide his time lurking in Sherlock's horrifyingly disorderly flat he shared with that army doctor fellow. Mycroft ran a long finger over the smooth wood handle of his umbrella, feeling the tiny bumps and pocks buck against his skin. He slid the handle toward him just a little way, enough so that the curved hook detached itself from the body of the appendage, revealing a flash of the cold polished blade concealed within the hilt. The lock clicked in the door across the room, his brother had returned. Mycroft snapped the blade back into the hilt and winced as he felt its keen bite against the flesh of his hand. Droplets of crimson welled to the surface and he licked them away with a quick flick of his tongue as the door opened onto what proved to be an astonishing development.

John gaped a bit, his jaw slack, he whipped his head to look at Sherlock, who's only portrayal of even feint amusement or alarm was betrayed behind the icy flicker of his glare. John was suddenly acutely aware of one particular part of his body, currently in possession of the world's only Consulting Detective. Neither moved, and Sherlock continued to hold John's hand tightly in his own. Mycroft stood gracefully and strode towards them; he drew himself almost to eye level with his brother, which was no mean feat, as he stood a full two inches shorter than his sibling. Sherlock thrust his chin out proudly, his eyes narrowed in defiance. Mycroft smiled a long indulgent smile, a bit too wide to be genuine. Then he flashed John a quick little glance which was congratulatory, but held the bitterest hint of foreboding. Then he left them standing in their living room, and skipped lightly down the stairs, swinging his umbrella by his side. He deeply regretted not betting money on this.

Sherlock twitched as the door slammed shut behind his brother, and the sound reverberated around the building. Then he turned very slightly toward John, his gaze passed unseeingly into the distance before lowering and coming to rest on his face, his soft, blue eyes, and for the briefest of seconds, his lips. They both broke their gaze in the same instant; Sherlock loosened his hold on John's hand, letting it slip through his fingers. John blushed furiously, a frown drawing his brow together in frustration and confusion. He tried hard to ignore the lingering warmth Sherlock's touch left on his soft, pink palm.

- - - - -Later that day - - - - -

"What are you doing?"

Sherlock drew the lurid blade along his forearm, droplets of blood swelled along the shallow cut. He picked up the dish and scraped the side gently against his skin, letting the blood drip into it. "I need a sample of my blood." He said, sliding the dish underneath the microscope. "Couldn't you, I don't know, prick your finger or something?" John said, rushing to the sink and wetting a cloth, hurrying over to press it to Sherlock's arm which continued to bleed steadily. John felt the heat of Sherlock's forearm pulsating through the cloth, like he was burning him. He let his hands linger a little longer than was necessary over the pleasant fiery sensation. Sherlock flinched in surprise, he shooed John's hands away to hold the rag himself, but smiled at the sentiment. There was a pause as he processed the results of his experiment, "No." He said, holding up one hand to show John the tiny pale pin pricks peppering the pads of his fingertips. John frowned and stalked to the living room, flopping down into his favourite chair. The chair was warm. Again. Why Sherlock couldn't stick to his own chair John would never know.

- - - - - 11pm that night- - - - - -

John groaned, yet again the time had passed without him noticing. It crawled past as he watched, seconds dribbled, minutes dawdled, and hours loped by sluggishly. But, like most things, it was most active when nobody was keeping an eye on it. They were watching a documentary about birds; the flat was warm and cosy, and John could feel his eyelids becoming heavy. Before long, he had slipped into an uncomfortable sleep, his hand propped against his cheek, legs curled beneath him in an awkward half crouch. He was roused by a sharp prodding against his ribs. John squirmed with discomfort and dragged his eyes open, Sherlock was staring at him intently, one long pale arm outstretched, his shirt cuffs rolled up to his elbows, the slender bow held lazily in his hand, the end jabbing him painfully in his slightly podgy stomach. John smacked the bow away with an annoyed little huff; Sherlock cracked a grin as John settled back into the chair. The TV was still on, the tiny bright birds flitting about the screen in an intricate mating dance. The beautiful colours in their plumage shimmering as the male found his place atop the female bird. The ritual made him slightly embarrassed, even more so when he remembered how the day's events had unfolded.

Sherlock was staring at him with a bemused glint in his eye, or was John imagining things? He rose unsteadily, his legs tired and stiff beneath him. "I think I should go to bed. It's late." John said as he staggered away from the sofa ungainly, Sherlock caught his arm with a chuckle and led him towards the door. John made the mistake of looking up at Sherlock, who looked almost nervous, his eyes were unfocused, and his grip was tight and possessive on John's arm. They reached the landing, the light of the streetlamps glowed lazily though the smoky glass and settled on the carpet at their feet in a sickly orange haze. They stood in silence outside John's door. It was so quiet and peaceful they forgot to breathe. Sherlock looked at John, and gave a curt nod, releasing his grip and starting down the stairs. John cast his eyes down and swallowed the lump of disappointment he felt swelling in his chest. He spread a hand over the wood of the door, feeling the cool timber ageing under his touch. For a moment he stood, concentrated on breathing, caught in the stillness of the evening.

Then he felt it, the faintest whisper of a breath on his neck. John Watson turned, and saw Sherlock Holmes silhouetted against the window. His hair was tousled and he had an air of defiance about him, quite different from that which he usually wore. John held his breath. Sherlock moved closer, wrought with indecision. Then he stepped into to him so their bodies touched lightly. John felt Sherlock's heart thrumming against his chest, a frightened bird throwing itself valiantly against the cage of his ribs. Then, gently, as though John was the most delicate and fragile thing he could imagine, Sherlock dipped his head and brushed his lips hesitantly against Johns. John gave a little gasp of delight, and pulled away carefully from the Consulting Detective; he wanted this to be perfect, because it could be one of the most important moments of his life. The tender skin of his lips tingled with anticipation; Sherlock took an accepting little breath of defeat, and sucked his lips into his lungs as if he was embarrassed by them. John shook his head sadly, oh no, did he really think John hadn't dreamt of this moment ever since their first case together? John found his voice, it was so quiet and meek he was surprised Sherlock even heard, "Are you sure this is what you want?" he said shakily, fighting back the desire that bubbled beneath his skin from their close proximity. Sherlock didn't give an answer, just looked at John desperately with hope and longing reflected in his pale eyes. John reached a hand up to touch Sherlock's cheek, felt the smooth cool skin beneath his fingertips, he traced a path with his index finger over the hollow cheeks, over Sherlock's ethereal features and down his long elegant neck. Sherlock shivered with pleasure and snaked an arm around John's body, pulling him closer. John stood on tip-toe and pressed their lips together once more, sucking gently on Sherlock's plump bottom lip. He threaded his fingers through Sherlock's soft, dark hair, pulling him down to him, deepening their kiss.

Sherlock closed his eyes, lost in John's soft lips, his tongue, which was lazily flicking against his own with dizzying results. John smelt of tea and warm woollen jumpers, of long, happy afternoons and cosy winter evenings, it was addictive and comforting, it was right. This time it was Sherlock's turn to break their contact, he stared for a moment, drinking him in, then he said to John very slowly and deliberately, to make certain that he would hear; "John Watson, I have never wanted anyone as much as I want you right now, and I want you for as long as I live." John's eyes sparkled with joy, he grinned from ear to ear, and Sherlock felt a great surge of love for the army doctor, "And possibly for a little bit longer after that." He tried to say, but the breath was knocked from his chest as John wrapped his arms around Sherlock's waist and dragged their bodies together once more in a tight embrace. John laughed breathlessly against Sherlock's chest; the detective nuzzled his hair affectionately, resting his chin on the shorter man's sandy hair.

For a moment on the landing of 221B Baker Street, time seemed to cease to exist, not a sound was to be heard, except the shuddering breaths of the two people who had finally come together, the stolen glances and the flirtatious banter, the joyous laughter and the hurt and comfort, had all melted away to expose a love which was so pure and beautiful it almost hummed between them, and an everlasting friendship, which ran even deeper.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock sat on the floor with his long limbs folded beneath him. John watched him scanning the articles feverishly; his silver eyes darted from one passage to another, unsystematically raking them for evidence. John rested his cheek in his palm, his elbow propped against the arm of the sofa where he sat, slowly documenting their last case. His stubby fingers tapped lazily at the keys of his laptop, his eyes wandered of their own accord over to where Sherlock was now scrawling notes, his slender hands curled around the pen, cradling it between his skeletal fingers. John sighed involuntarily, then Sherlock spoke "You're staring John." He said indulgently in his silky velvet voice, drawing out the syllables and elongating the 'o' in John's name, without raising his head. John blushed inwardly but didn't look away, instead he said, as seductively as he could;

"Yes, I am. But you're worth staring at." Sherlock looked at him with a little smile tightening his full lips across his teeth. Sherlock laid the pen down and let the papers fall atop one another on the ground in abandon. He sauntered over to John, who wetted his lips with his pink tongue in anticipation. Sherlock swung his hips round, treating John to a pleasing glimpse of his arse in _those_ jeans, and let his body fall elegantly into the cushions next to him. Sherlock hummed a little reply, "Thank you" he drawled, his voice husky and tempting. His eyes flicked momentarily to the screen of the laptop on John's knees, which sat open on a new entry for the infamous blog, the little white box crammed with text. A frown creased his brow, John looked startled, and turned his gaze from Sherlock's lips to the screen, and was horrified at what he saw. It seemed that his fingers had continued their typing without his conscious mind to keep an eye on them. The stark white box loomed at him, the thick black words he had typed looking bold and arrogant in contrast to the white. He blinked in disbelief, and, occasionally scanning Sherlock's features for any sign of a response, he began to read what he had written...

'_There he is now, the brilliant Sherlock Holmes, sat on our carpet, his notes in hand. His beautiful fingers are caressing the pages with new-found interest. Those fingers I used to dream about caressing me. I'm staring at him but I don't think he realises, no, of course he realises, he's Sherlock Holmes. Those eyes, I could drown in them, like liquid pools of graphite, even now when his mind is so sharp and focused, they are calm and seductive, analytical and bright and alive. I miss his body already, the flat muscled planes of his smooth pale chest pressed against my own, his strong arms wrapped around my neck, the sweat that beads on his forehead like jewels and the sexy quirk of his lips when he's just thought of something really clever, and his heartbreaking smile, and the soft dark curls that frame his beautiful face, the way they feel twisted between my fingers, the heat of his slick wet skin against my palm. He is rude, cruel, amazing and arrogant, smart and witty, tender and unfeeling, brilliant and terrible. I love him in spite of and because of these traits. I love everything about him because these things make him who he is. Trust me to fall in love with a man who already has a much stronger ongoing relationship with the dead than with the living. Compared to his work, am I really no more than his mistress? I can't stand the thought of losing him, but what really is more important? He knows that I desire him, but even the great Sherlock Holmes can't deduce that I actually love him. Because I do, I love him. I love him. I love him. And he'll never know...'_

John finished, he was shaking with the fear that Sherlock could reject him at any moment, and that his confession could be too much for the detective to handle. If he had to choose what was more important, his lover or his livelihood, could it really be him that he wanted? Sherlock was quiet for some time; he stared unseeingly out of the far window at the street and at the people there. He had a duty to perform, he had to keep them safe, and it would always be his job to be the one to save them and catch the killer, and unravel the scarlet thread of murder that ran through their hearts. Scandal and intrigue, violence and passion were the pulsating lifeblood of the city, blood he would delight in spilling. Then the detective looked at John Watson, his blogger, his friend, his lover, and more importantly, the man he _loved_. He leaned forward, one arm snaked around John's waist and the other teased open the collar of his shirt. Sherlock bent his head as he was so used to doing by now, his lips found _that _point in John's shoulder, the smooth dip between the muscle and the collarbone. John moaned in pleasure as Sherlock ghosted light kisses along the contours of his neck, and eventually found his lips. There was a moment of hesitation, and John felt the heat of Sherlock's breath tickle his ear as he moved away to nudge their foreheads together. He heard the faintest noise of skin leaving skin as Sherlock parted his lips and whispered one word, the word John would remember as being the word which changed everything... "You"


	3. Chapter 3

John remembers exactly the way he and Sherlock revealed their relationship to Lestrade and the others. He remembers how the watery light played on the grimacing face of the dead man. He remembers the sound of the wind playing in the leaves of the trees above his head. He remembers the light rain that had begun to fall. He remembered looking at Sherlock and thinking how he is the luckiest man in the world because Sherlock is his and will always be his because he loves him. But most of all, John remembers the look on Anderson's face.

They stood in grim and meditative silence around the body, which had been moved out of the ruined house and now lay quietly by the roadside. Sherlock had walked away from the scene to think, his almost horsey face was drawn in boredom and what appeared to be disinterest, although those who knew him saw that he was deep in thought, his mind reeling with possibilities. John was suddenly struck by an idea, his heart quickened with devilish delight. They had been longing to tell people about their involvement for so long, but Sherlock was intent on keeping it a secret until it was absolutely vital that they knew. John suspected that he was searching for the most dramatic and flamboyant way to show off his new fledgling relationship. It was endearing but also frustrating for John to not be able to touch him and be as near to Sherlock as he wanted right now. So John devised a plan.

Sherlock tipped his face to meet the darkening clouds, his lips quirked slightly. The rain began to fall gently. John watched as Sherlock closed his eyes and breathed out softly stretching his long neck away from John. It took all John's strength not to jump at him and latch his lips onto the beautifully pale skin and muscle Sherlock presented to him. His breath caught in his throat for a moment as John turned to assess their company. Lestrade watched them critically, eyes boring into Sherlock with impatience. Anderson and Donovan stood watching the Consulting Detective with mutual distaste, along with a large percentage of the forensics team. Nobody was looking at John.

A droplet of rainwater dribbled from the clouds and fell onto Sherlock's bottom lip, he didn't seem to notice. That did it. John strode purposefully over to where Sherlock was standing still with his eyes closed. John reached up and took Sherlock roughly by the collar, spinning him on his heels, and before Sherlock knew what was happening, John had dragged him down to meet his lips in a soft and lingering kiss. Sherlock stiffened at first, and then sighed contentedly, his resolve melting as John flicked his tongue against his lip to erase the trace of rainwater. They pulled apart and smiled as they greeted the group of gawping people who had witnessed their contact. John looped his arm around Sherlock's waist beneath his immense coat, sliding his hand into Sherlock's back pocket and cheekily cupping his arse. Sherlock jumped and flushed scarlet with embarrassment. He nuzzled John's ear affectionately as the people continued to stare with open mouths.

Lestrade was nodding in his wise and knowing way. Of course he had sussed out their relationship as soon as he saw the way that Sherlock stared hungrily at the army doctor, almost devouring him with his eyes, and blushing like a little girl when he complemented him on his genius. To be perfectly honest he wondered why it had taken them this long. Donovan just kept blinking rapidly, as though she could erase the image engrained onto the backs of her eyelids. It was Anderson's response which was the most entertaining. His breath seemed to escape him, rushing from his lungs in his immeasurable surprise. His complexion was of parchment white and had the expression of someone who didn't know whether to laugh or cry. He swayed nauseously on his heels and eventually staggered away in his confusion.

John felt Sherlock's breath hot on his neck "Now they know" he said. John nodded.

"Now they know."


	4. Chapter 4

"Sherlock seriously shut the hell up!"

"Why should I? He started it!"

"Apologise!"

"No!" Lestrade sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose patiently.

"I don't care, he's your partner! Say you're sorry!"

"NO!"

"You are such a child."

"I am not!"

"Oh get over yourself! Couples have arguments all the time; it's up to you to be the one who makes it up to him!"

"Why is it always me who has to do it? He's older than me!"

"Because you're taller!"

"That's a poor excuse for logic."

"SHERLOCK!"

"Fine! Fine, but if he kills me I'm holding you entirely responsible!"

Sherlock stalked off in the direction of his Doctor, only to find that he was nowhere in sight. Sherlock spun round on his heel, contemplating the possibilities. John would have gone home, he guessed. It was getting dark now, the sun had dipped low into the horizon, and the inky blackness of night permeated the sky like a curtain of velvet, and the first stars glinted brilliantly in contrast as Sherlock Holmes trotted up the steps to his flat at 221B Baker Street.

When he opened the door, Sherlock was confronted by the oppressive silence that swamped the flat, it settled around him, muffling the thud of his shoes on the hardwood floor as he crossed the room to their bedroom door, formerly his own.

John wasn't in their bed. It was dark and gloomy, but Sherlock could clearly see that there was no John-shaped lump under their duvet. His heart sank, John only ever slept in his own bed when he was really mad at him.

Upstairs, and sure enough there was John, his friend, his blogger, his lover, curled with his back to him, fast asleep.

Knowing full well that he would get told off severely for it, but undeterred, Sherlock stripped to his boxers and lay down carefully next to John. He was still for a moment, listening to John's gentle breathing and counting the seconds before he slowly rolled over and gingerly cuddled into John's side. He was tense, waiting for the doctor to wake up, but his breathing came steady and John remained undisturbed. Satisfied, Sherlock relaxed against his partner's back, feeling the comforting warmth of his body close to his, and drifted off into sleep.

John woke early, swamped by the gangly limbs draped over his own. Sherlock was snuggled tightly against his back, his face buried deep into John's hair and his long fingers digging into his hip possessively. John sighed inwardly, throwing him off and stomping to the kitchen to make tea, he wasn't quite done being angry with Sherlock yet, and besides, he wanted to have some fun with this.

Sherlock groaned in desperation, patting the warm space John had occupied forlornly. He padded to the kitchen after slinging his dressing gown around his shoulders, to find John making tea for one. He ambled up hopefully, placing his hands tentatively on John's waist and gently nibbling his ear in a gesture which always made him go gooey and love-sick. Today this didn't seem to be working, and John pushed him off roughly, walking into the living room.

It took all of John Watson's strength not to surrender when he felt those skilled fingers playing with the waistband of his jeans, and the heat of Sherlock's bare chest pressed up against him burned through his clothes. He suppressed a moan as Sherlock did that thing to his ear, and fought the urges he felt stirring inside him valiantly, managing to break free of his hold. He was secretly proud of his resolve, and congratulated himself for being one of the few who could choose to ignore the advances of that brilliant genius. He heard Sherlock growl with impatience as he walked away.

Sherlock was at a loss, what was he to do? How could he make John forgive him? He paced the room, and was struck by an idea. He hunched over his laptop, punching the keys viciously in his urgency. He researched different ways to make someone you love forgive you. One of the immediate answers that sprung up had something to do with performing a sexual favour. He briefly contemplated calling John down, sprinkling the room with rose petals and lying naked on their bed, but he reconsidered, realising that John would probably find that too vulgar and embarrassing...

The second recommendation was that he should do something which accurately reflected his love and adoration for his partner, a single romantic, purely selfless act. Now that, Sherlock could do.

John came downstairs, expecting to find Sherlock sulking in his chair like usual, but instead he found that the flat was seemingly empty. Everything was as it should be, except for the object on the kitchen table. An average plastic bottle holding four pints of (in date) milk sat proudly on the table, there was a bright crimson bow tied around the narrow handle and a scrawled note laid next to the curious gift. John approached it cautiously; surely this was some kind of trick. He picked up the note like it was about to explode, and scrutinised it thoroughly. It was written in Sherlock's cursive script, and went as follows;

_John,_

_I got the milk._

_Love, Sherlock_

John stared at it in disbelief, there was a light cough from behind him, and John turned to find Sherlock standing in the middle of the room looking hopeful and positively adorable. He scuffed his feet a bit and stared fixedly at the floor. "John, uh, I," He stuttered "I, I'm sorry." Sherlock managed, looking up sheepishly. John just stared at him, then he launched himself forwards into his partner's arms. Sherlock stumbled back as John mashed their mouths together, getting as close to Sherlock as was humanly possibly, pulling at his hair in his desperation to pour as much love as he could into his actions. He choked a laugh as Sherlock tripped and fell onto the sofa, their bodies crashing together. Their lips found their rhythm, their clothes forming uncomfortable barriers between their bodies, and their hips began to writhe and buck against each other. Soon John was utterly lost to Sherlock, and he finally surrendered to him with a sigh of utter euphoria.

The two men lay in each other's arms, content to remain lost to their thoughts, their fingers tracing gentle patterns over bare skin, caressing and stroking the body of the other until Sherlock broke the silence.

"Does this mean I am forgiven?" John chuckled lightly, kissing Sherlock again and pressing their foreheads together. There was a pause, John smiled against his fantastic, unique, mad consulting detective, and whispered to him,

"Always."


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock hurried up the stairs to the bedroom where the forensics team had gathered. The old lady had been killed at precisely 10:15pm, which gave the murderer a considerable amount of time to escape the country, but he would be stopped, so long as Sherlock could find some kind of evidence as to his identity in time.

John Watson fell at his heels, entering the room a second after the taller man, panting a little from the climb. As he scanned the faces, he felt sure that he was scrutinised. John panicked for a moment, and wondered if his scruffy appearance was a dead giveaway. He might as well have a huge neon sign that said 'Just had intercourse' flash above his head, he thought bitterly. Damn that man and his impatience, running off out the door like that before John could even gather himself.

It was an unseasonably warm day, and the heat radiated through the tiny room, almost creating visible ripples in the stagnant air. Sherlock spun in a tight circle on his heels, his coat billowing around him. He squatted down to examine the corpse sprawled at his feet, casually stripping off his scarf as he did so. John watched him work; the long pale fingers poked and prodded the body carelessly, efficiently cataloguing the evidence he needed. Sherlock stood up and crossed the room to speak with Lestrade, making elaborate gestures with his arms to illustrate the extent of the D.I.'s idiocy. Lestrade just stared at him through bored, half-lidded eyes, his hands held patiently behind his back so that he resisted the urge to punch the Consulting Detective hard in his smug face. John shook his head helplessly.

John gazed around the room, his pulse steadying, and attempted to smooth his tousled sandy hair into something more respectable, until he could no longer feel the pressure of those elegant hands moving rhythmically against his scalp. Something caught his eye. Anderson stood with his legs apart, arms crossed over his scrawny chest, and a defiant look in his eyes. John followed his gaze to where Sherlock was handing over evidence to Lestrade in the form of the victim's watch strap. John frowned, what could the arrogant little creep be staring at? Sherlock walked across the room and stood close to John so that their hips bumped slightly. Anderson still kept his gaze trained on a point of Sherlock's neck, his eyes narrowed in thought. Sherlock blinked at him complacently. "What is it, Anderson?" He said impatiently. Anderson grimaced and his beady eyes flicked to the detective's face momentarily, before coming to rest on the smooth long neck once more, and a large, red, circular mark beneath his jaw. Sherlock's eyes widened, but in a split second his poise was regained, and he scrutinised the man before him. "Is that a hickey?" Anderson blurted at last. John coloured, the blood rising to his cheeks in a flash back. Sherlock sniffed distastefully.

"No, it's a love-bite." He corrected. Anderson scoffed,

"Whatever. But maybe you should consider keeping whatever you two do in private separate from your work." Sherlock set his mouth in a firm line, John could see him biting hard on his bottom lip, and touched his arm reassuringly.

"That may be so, but perhaps then, you should consider not displaying the relationship between yourself and Sergeant Donovan." Sherlock paused to watch the effect his words had on the pathetic man. "And if I'm not mistaken, that is in fact a hickey you seem to be sporting right behind your left ear." Anderson narrowed his eyes threateningly, and clapped a hand to his throat in defence. "So why then," Sherlock continued, "would you have a hickey when your wife is currently away on a business trip, shagging her boss?"

Anderson's mouth hung open in disbelief. The entire company of the room were now watching this battle of wits. John watched his lover in admiration as Sherlock fired off evidence of Anderson's deceit. "...so at least I can be proud to be in a relationship, and I don't have to hide the fact that I'm happy with Doctor Watson." John looked around the room to a sea of faces now smiling at the couple as they stood their ground, and at Lestrade, who was grinning at Sherlock's declaration. John realised that he was grinning too, and he fearlessly took Sherlock's hand in his own, sliding his fingers between the thinner ones of his Consulting Detective. Sherlock squeezed his hand lovingly.

Sherlock slung his scarf over his arm. "Are we done here Detective Inspector?" He asked coldly. Lestrade nodded. They started towards the door, leaving a startled Anderson gaping after them. Sherlock turned sharply to face Anderson, as a second thought he added, very loudly, "And for your information, John happens to be amazing in bed!"

John jerked his head up; the sound that came out of his mouth was not human. Anderson squeaked in horror at his mental image, and the room was silent as Sherlock trotted away down the stairs, John scurried after him, being dragged by his hand out onto the street.

Sherlock walked brusquely, and John had a hard time keeping up. He was fuming with embarrassment. "You know you really didn't need to add that bit at the end Sherlock!" His lover smirked and pressed himself into John's side lightly,

"It had to be said" He replied. John was silent for a moment before a thought struck him.

"Sherlock?"

"Hmm?"

"You corrected Anderson when he called the mark on your neck a hickey, by saying it was a love-bite," John paused, "but you then proceeded to refer to his as a hickey anyway, why?" he asked curiously. Sherlock frowned.

"I would have thought that was obvious John."

"Not to me it isn't" Sherlock hesitated,

"Well, his was made while he was committing adultery. Adultery, in my opinion, is certainly not an act of love." Sherlock said, "But the mark you gave me was created while we were making love. And we love each other, John." He took a breath. "That's why."

John stared up at his partner in adoration. "That's a very sweet thing for you to say, Sherlock" He managed as he pulled the taller man closer to him as they walked hand in hand down the street. Sherlock smiled crookedly,

"It's true." He shrugged, but the smile remained.

They walked in comfortable silence once more, neither considering the option of hailing a cab. It was a beautiful day, and they wanted to enjoy it. John plucked at the object draped over Sherlock's sleeve. "Not going to put your scarf back on then?" He teased. Sherlock grinned,

"I've nothing to hide Doctor Watson." He said as he bent down to kiss John's hair. "I was thinking," He rumbled close to John's ear, "you sir, are considerably lacking in love-bites yourself." John shivered in anticipation, but said nothing. "How about we go back to Baker Street and I administer a few of my own to your person?" John's breath quickened, he nodded once. "Goood" Sherlock drawled. John clutched at his shirt desperately. This was going to be a long afternoon.


	6. Chapter 6

"John?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm in handcuffs John."

"I can see that."

"Lestrade says it's to stop me pinching things."

"Quite right too"

"Jaaaawwwn!"

"What!"

"I want to go home John"

"We can't. Lestrade says we have to wait."

"Why?"

"Because you punched Anderson in the face and insulted half of the yard simultaneously. God knows how you managed that one."

"He was being a prick."

"Sherlock!"

"You know it's true!"

"...Yeah he was being a bit of an idiot."

"I prefer my phrasing."

"OK, well I'm nice."

"Yes, yes you are."

"...Stop that."

"What?"

"That look"

"I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about."

"You're doing it on purpose."

"I am not!"

"You are!"

"Fine, tell me what I am doing Dr Watson...deduce me."

*gulp*

"You...you are...smouldering."

"Thank you"

"Don't you wink at me Mr Holmes!"

*chuckling*

"Aaah, Lestrade, is it me or did it just get thicker in here?"

"Shut it you. John, you can take him home now."

"...ooh, thaaanks."

"Uh, Detective, are you forgetting something?"

"Nope."

"Really? Because I think I'm still in handcuffs."

"So you are."

"Anytime you feel like releasing me, please do."

"Uh, no. Bye now."

"Wait, what are we meant to do about the handcuffs?"

"Oh I'm sure you'll figure something out. Put them to good use."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I think you know."

0_o

"Sherlock"

"Yes John?"

"Stop smirking"

"I am not!"

"Like a Cheshire cat."

"Leave me alone."

"Come up with a genius plan to get yourself out of those handcuffs yet?"

"...No."

"Well, think of something quick, I feel like a prison guard carting you around all clapped in irons like that."

"Hmmm, I'm sure I'll find a way to make the best of my predicament with the handcuffs, or 'put them to good use' as Lestrade so eloquently put it."

"...What did you have in mind?"

"Well, seeing as we're almost home, and it is your day off..."

"Yeeesss..."

"We could...you know."

"Hmmm, that sounds very appealing right now. You are at my mercy..."

"Now that is arousing."

"Ha, a gentleman as always"

"Just think John, I'm in handcuffs...and we don't have to leave the bedroom all day..."

"Mr Holmes, I do believe you are turning me on."

"Wouldn't be the first time"

"Shut up and open the door"

"I'm in handcuffs."

"Oh, shit, right...where are your keys?"

"In my pocket - yaahhaa! That's not the pocket!"

"Sorry..."

"Stop grinning"

"I assure you it's not intentional."

"Oh you are insufferable."

"Hmm..."

"You can take your hand out now."

"Damn."

"John."

"What?"

"Open the door."


	7. Chapter 7

"Achooo!" There was a short pause. "ACHOOO!" John sneezed, and sneezed, and sneezed again. Sherlock stiffened from where he was lounged on the sofa with John's laptop balanced on his knees. He sighed deeply.

"You are incredibly annoying today John." He stated irritably. John simply glowered at him, imagining the many creative ways he could do away with the frustrating, egotistical Consulting Detective. "Dear dear, death by violin, how refreshingly original of you" Sherlock scoffed sarcastically, having observed the wistful glance John had thrown at his beloved Stradivarius.

"Shut. Up." John bit out angrily. "I. Am. Ill. So leave me alone." He muttered, coughing loudly and sniffing unattractively. Sherlock grimaced and returned his attention to the screen once more. John groaned and flopped onto the other end of the small sofa with the back of his hand pressed to his forehead. "I want to die." He mumbled almost to himself. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"For goodness sake, you are a doctor, not to mention a soldier; you've seen worse, now man up and make me some tea." There was a long angry silence from the vicinity around Sherlock's feet where John was sprawled. "I can sense that you are not very happy with me right now." Sherlock said lazily, his eyes flicking to his disgruntled lover's face with interest. John raised his arm and showed the other man his middle finger complacently. "Charming" Sherlock replied. He thought for a moment, observing the soft sandy head of hair belonging to his lover laid at his feet.

John pulled his face out of the cushion as Sherlock got up, watching as the taller man padded to the kitchen and put the kettle on. Sherlock returned, tugging the blanket from the back of John's chair and flopping into the same spot on the sofa. He leant forwards and put his hands under John's armpits. With a heave, he lifted John against his chest, curling his limbs around him, feeling the warmth of the other man's body spreading through him.

John cuddled into Sherlock's lap, feeling wanted and loved with this sudden expression of adoration from a man who so frequently showed such little emotion. Sherlock bent his head and kissed John tenderly on his chapped lips. John's eyelids fluttered closed and he surrendered himself to Sherlock, his hands clutched at the other man's tee shirt and Sherlock's long fingers moved to brush his cheek gently. John jerked away suddenly, leaving Sherlock looking startled with reddened lips and tousled hair. "I'm ill, Sherlock, I don't want you to-" But he was cut off by soft desperate lips sealing his own once more.

"I don't care" Sherlock whispered sensually, kissed a blazing trail along his neck, pausing to suck on the delicate skin just behind John's earlobe. John moaned and moved his hands up to tangle in the dark waves of his lover's hair, fingers pressing lightly against his scalp. Sherlock hissed and pressed against him. "OK, OK, stop, this is just stupid, I don't want you getting ill." John said regretfully, like he didn't fully believe his own words. Sherlock raised a sceptical eyebrow. John knew Sherlock could feel the increasing stiffness in his groin, although the detective really had nothing to smirk about, considering he wasn't attempting to hide his own arousal. "I said I don't care." Sherlock said firmly, his idle hands wandered over John's exposed skin, the doctor strained against him and panted a little.

"No Sherlock, stop." Sherlock sighed, snaking an arm around his doctor's waist, stroking the small of his back soothingly.

"OK" He replied acceptingly, wrapping his arms around the smaller man who had gratefully buried his face in the crook of his neck. Sherlock shifted beneath him, making sure John was completely comfortable. John smiled as he felt Sherlock run his fingers through his hair, stroking the fine downy fluff at the base of his neck.

"You know you're really quite a softie when the mood takes you" John mumbled.

"Shhhh" Sherlock cooed "If you talk too loudly you may start to make sense." John chuckled and nuzzled his chest affectionately. Sherlock blushed and turned on his side to twine their hands together. "I think I rather like being a softie sometimes." He mused, gazing down at his lover to find that he had already fallen into a deep sleep with a smile tweaking the corners of his inviting mouth. Now seemed as good a time as any, he thought.

The Consulting Detective moved close to the Army Doctor asleep in his arms, parting his lip near the whorl of the other man's ear, he took a breath. "I love you, John Watson" he breathed, like a secret. His vulnerability exposed, his feelings laid bare, his bit his tongue, sucked his lips into his lungs in the silence which followed his declaration.

Below him, out of his line of sight, the doctor smiled. Then he uttered the words which held the most truth he had ever felt in his life, and would change it forever.

"I love you too, Sherlock Holmes."


	8. Chapter 8

John Watson wandered into the bedroom he shared with the worlds only Consulting Detective in his pyjama pants, holding a mug of freshly brewed coffee in each hand. He faltered in his stride as he glimpsed the other man unfolding himself from under the covers and kicking them back to the end of the bed sleepily. Sherlock swung his legs over the bed and planted them on the floor. He stood up slowly, his hair mussed up and his grey threadbare tee-shirt rucked up around his middle. The doctor smiled to himself as he watched his lover stretch lazily, bringing his arms up in the air and exposing a tantalizing strip of pale flesh just above the waistline of his low slung boxers. Sherlock yawned, drawing his mouth wide like a lions. He blinked a few times, sensing danger.

John shivered with desire as he gazed at those beautiful narrow hips and the downy stripe of soft light hair disappearing below the hard abdomen and into detective's boxers. He couldn't help thinking how much better those hips would look from a different angle, say, settled between his thighs. The doctor set down the mugs silently and crept forwards into the room, advancing on the other man with well practised stealth. Sherlock frowned and stood still for a moment, he turned his head slowly in suspicion. "John?" He said in confusion as the doctor charged forwards and rugby tackled him onto the bed.

John laughed heartily as Sherlock yelped as he barrelled into his slender frame. The smaller man grinned seductively as he slotted their bodies comfortably together, running his fingers through Sherlock's tousled hair and stroking his fingers along those wonderful hips with relish.

The detective overcame his surprise, and found that he rather enjoyed being tackled to the bed to make love first thing in the morning to an unbearably sexy army doctor, who was currently straddling his thighs and doing the most indescribable things with his tongue. He was convinced that pleasure this intense shouldn't be legal. Research had shown that after being in a relationship with this brilliant man for five whole incredible months, and after approximately 207 bloody spectacular shags, the dizzying passionate longing and effect of utter devotion should be wearing off, but for the Baker Street Boys, things just kept getting better.

After a good few hours of reckless sex, fuelled by copious amount of tea and coffee, the pair emerged from their bedroom and staggered drunkenly down the hall, kissing languidly with their arms wrapped around each other.

Sherlock collapsed into John's armchair, pulling the doctor down on top of him and cuddling him to his chest. John sighed contentedly, burying his nose in his detective's hair. "I love you" He murmured, tugging Sherlock's dressing gown around his own naked body. The other man hummed happily, fingering John's jumper which he had pilfered from their bedroom floor. "I love you too" He replied. In hindsight it was rather a stupid idea to exchange clothing, John's jumper was far too short for Sherlock, and hung off him like a coat on a hat stand. In contrast, the expensive silk dressing gown looked out of place on the modestly dressed army doctor.

Sherlock smiled as John nuzzled his ear, and then a small square of paper caught his eye where it lay invitingly next to the door. "John, it seems that your sister has left us a note..." He said as he lifted the doctor off his lap and plonked him back in the seat, rising to wander over to the door.

The doctor blushed, "Uh, Sherlock, you're not wearing any pants." Sherlock grinned, feeling the weight of his lovers gaze settle on his bare arse. The detective stooped to pick up the letter, smiling at the audible intake of breath the action caused from the vicinity of the armchair. He glanced briefly at the note and twisted the door handle, whipping the front door wide open to retrieve the package on their landing. There was a startled shriek from the hall and Sherlock darted back into the flat and slammed the door shut behind him.

John did his best to tear his eyes away from the detective's gloriously exposed crotch and looked at his face, which was stricken with horror. He swallowed and took a breath. "I think Mrs Hudson just saw me half naked, wearing nothing but your jumper." He said quietly, still recovering from shock.

There was a silence as John processed this information "What does the note say?" Sherlock turned the paper over in his hands.

'_Dear John and Sherlock, _

_Stopped by to drop off your little coming out gift, seemed like you two were happily occupied. _(John could almost hear her sniggering as she wrote the sentence) _And John, you should know that your lovely boyfriend makes a noise like a constipated mule when he orgasms.- Harry'_

John chuckled; Sherlock stared at him in disbelief. "Don't worry; she was bound to find out some time. You're not the quietest person when you're enjoying yourself as much as you were a minute ago, might I add." The detective looked at him blankly. "Sherlock, you scream bloody murder when you're climaxing" Sherlock grinned, tossing the package into John's lap and wandering off to find some trousers.

When he returned, John was staring at the open package in his lap like it had personally violated him. "Sherlock..."

"Yes John?"

"My sister has sent us a box of condoms." There was a pause as John rummage in the box "Aaand some lube." Sherlock snorted and settled onto the arm of the sofa next to his lover's arm. "Sherlock for God's sake put on some pants!"

"You rather gave the impression that you wanted quite the opposite _dear_" Sherlock purred in John's ear.

"Ha ha, OK fine, but I still don't understand why we have condoms and lube from my sister of all people!"

"She seems to have a very dry sense of humour."

"That's one way to put it."

"Now John, since I am without underwear, how about we put your sister's thoughtful gift to good use hmm?"

"Now _that_ sounds like a very good idea..."


	9. Chapter 9

**Hi, I'm very nervous about this one, please review it and tell me what you think, I hope this isn't too...I don't know. This is my first go at this kind of writing, it's not really in sequence with the others, just a kind of snippet of a scenario I imagined in the twisted dirty little corner of my mind. I got some lovely feedback to my questions, so thank you for all of them. Here goes. ~K**

**(Rated NC-17 for explicit adult content) **

* * *

><p>"Sherlock what the hell are you doing?"<p>

"I would have thought that would be obvious." The taller man said, his fingers playing with the belt loops of John's fitted jeans to tug the other man closer and kiss him breathlessly.

"No Sherlock- I mean- why here? Why now?" John gasped as Sherlock pushed him roughly against the closed door to their flat, his shoulder blades crashing into the wood as the detective began the onslaught of pleasure, attacking every inch of bare skin he could find with his soft warm mouth.

"Why not here? Why not now? Because, John-" Sherlock began, kissing him deeply, his mouth moving insistently with increasing pressure against John's. Sharp eager teeth nipped the doctor's bottom lip and his breathing became ragged as Sherlock's tongue swept briefly along his own. Sherlock broke away from the kiss to continue speaking, his lips red and plump from the action. "-We have just evaded the police and left a crime scene of which we are the prime suspects. Now in a few hours or so the police are finally going to figure out what happened, and I don't want to waste a single moment of that time when I could be doing so much more with my mouth than talking." He continued, moving down John's neck, gently biting and sucking marks onto the other man's skin, making John moan in pleasure. John's brain suddenly woke up and he began to kiss the taller man back, his hands skittered feverishly over the detective's body, lust blazing in his eyes.

Sherlock's long fingers trailed downwards and idly stroked along the length of his erection, eliciting a soft desperate groan from the army doctor. John thrust against Sherlock's palm and his fingers began to fumble blindly at the fiddly buttons on Sherlock's purple silk shirt. He tugged the fabric open and ran his hands over the smooth pale chest beneath, feeling the erratic patter of the detective's heartbeat under his fingertips. Sherlock lingered on John's throat, relishing the pleasure he was creating in the older man. His tongue flicked lazily to taste John's skin, licking slow trails along the flesh and brushing his lips and the tip of his nose against the other man's body.

John reached up and tangled his fingers in Sherlock's dark curls, twisting the fine downy fluff of hair at the nape of his neck, which manifested itself in a mixture of sensual pleasure and pain for the consulting detective. John felt the pressure of Sherlock's hardened member against his inner thigh, and let his hands wander down below the taller man's waist to stroke along the inside of his leg teasingly. Sherlock grunted and took one of John's hands in his own, guiding it to his crotch and placing John's palm over his erection. His eyes fluttered closed as John rubbed against him. The friction was almost too much to bear. Ignoring the ache in his groin, Sherlock lifted his head from John's shoulder and pressed a chastised kiss to his forehead to get the doctor's attention away from what he was doing with Sherlock's body. "Bedroom" Sherlock gasped breathlessly, wrapping his arms around his flatmate and drawing him into his chest while continuing to kiss him. John nodded his consent, and the two men stumbled backwards towards Sherlock's room near the kitchen. John's hip collided with the table and Sherlock tripped over the chair leg, they laughed as they fell into each other, all awkwardness forgotten. Sherlock untangled their limbs, taking John's hand and leading him to his room with a boyish sparkle in his eyes. They kicked off their shoes simultaneously, running bare foot to the end of the hallway. Sherlock's hair was adorably tousled and his shirt was open, John's belt was undone and his jumper was pulled over one shoulder. At the doorway the two friends took a moment to assess the damage, staring at each other and grinning as the suppressed need and longing crackled between them in an undisputable sexual energy. This was it, the final step. If John crossed that threshold now there was no turning back, Sherlock would be his forever, his lover, his partner. The doctor chuckled and leapt into the detective's arms with reckless abandon.

They had made their decisions, now there was no reason to rush what was sure to be the greatest moment of their lives. Sherlock walked backwards with John attached to his lips, kissing him hungrily. The younger man's legs hit mattress and he collapsed onto the bed with John falling heavily on top of him. "Are you sure this is what you want?" Sherlock breathed as John tugged hopelessly at his belt, trembling with desire as the other man's fingers brushed the tightness in his trousers.

"Always" John replied; finally conquering Sherlock's jeans and tugging them over the taller man's sharp pale hipbones with relish. Anxious to catch up, Sherlock took hold of the oatmeal jumper John was wearing and pulled it over his head in one fluid movement. John laughed throatily as Sherlock tossed it aside and ran his long fingers through the doctor's short cropped sandy hair, making it stick up on end in a manner which Sherlock found unbearably sexy.

They kissed again, Sherlock pulling John down so the other man had to swing his leg over Sherlock's lanky form and sit straddling his hips. This time it was slow and tender, all their love and lust poured into that simple action. John dragged the sleeves of Sherlock's expensive shirt over his biceps, marvelling at the flat planes of the chest belonging to the man between his thighs. Sherlock caught up with John, relieving him of his trousers and soft grey tee shirt until they were both gazing at one another in nothing but their boxers.

Sherlock gave a lopsided smile as John carefully lay down and pressed his body against him, feeling the full weight of the other man placed over him. Their legs tangled together and the pulsing heat in their groins caused friction against each other. They paused, letting the moment hang suspended in the chorus of their ragged breathing and unspoken promise of what was to come.

Sherlock reached down and stroked the delicate sensitive skin of John's abdomen, and then he hooked his thumbs into the waistband of John's boxers, sliding them gently over the other man's body with aching deliberation. John followed his lead, letting his hands wander over the gorgeous buttocks and between the detective's thighs as he pulled down the last item of clothing that separated them. Sherlock reached down thoughtfully and tugged up the sheet from the foot of his unmade bed, bringing it up over John's bare waist and covering them both in the thin fabric. John smiled at the sentiment, stroking Sherlock's hair he lowered himself gently over the other man's impressive erection. Sherlock captured his lips once more, and growled as John shifted against him, their bodies throbbing with tension. As their erections rubbed together Sherlock's eyes rolled back in his head with the utter bliss the sensation incurred. John found his rhythm and they began to clutch at each other as the waves of pleasure rippled over their bodies and made the air sing with the euphoria they felt beneath the sheet.

John's hips bucked against Sherlock's, anxious to please him. He moaned, a low and guttural sound as the younger man's hands ran along his sides to cup his arse as John rocked into him. In his state of utter abandon, Sherlock wrapped his arms around his army doctor and kissed his body seductively. He moved slightly to touch the broken scar tissue on John's shoulder with his lips, letting them linger on the irregular bumps and dips in his skin, experimentally he ran his tongue along the ridge of pale tissue. John gasped "O-oh Go-o-d" He choked, his voice cracking.

"John? John I'm so sorry, I didn't know, are you OK, oh God I'm so sorry!" Sherlock panted, his hands stroking over the other man's shoulder with worry. John scrunched his eyes shut,

"No, you don't understand, I'm sensitive there, at that spot. It felt good, Sherlock, more than good, bloody fantastic, please, don't stop" The detective hesitated, John still desperately ground against him. "P-ple-ease Sh-herlock!" He cried, resting his head against Sherlock's shoulder and pulling at his dark hair in frustration and desire.

"Oh God yes" Sherlock rumbled, his voice husky with longing.

He tasted the salty sweat on his skin with his lips and closed his eyes as the sensation washed over him. The deep erotic throbbing of John riding his hips, his John, pressed so tightly against him, breath coming short and strained, ghosting over his jaw. It was too perfect to be real, and Sherlock groaned as the other man wriggled down his body and slowly drew himself back up to meet the detective's eyes, their bodies trembling. They stared at each other as they made love, John never wavering in his pulsating movement.

Sherlock jerked and convulsed with spasms of discomfort as he tried to hold out for longer, his aching member pounded and he quivered with the tension it caused. John lifted a hand and caressed Sherlock's cheekbones with a frown knitting his brow. He wanted to know if he was OK. Sherlock wanted to scream at him, how could he not be OK? He had never experienced such total bliss before, with the man he had loved ever since they first met. Sherlock didn't want to speak, didn't want to ruin what was already such a perfect moment. In answer to his lover, Sherlock lifted his head and bent it carefully over John's shoulder, nibbling the skin delicately and bucking his head against John's neck as they moved against one another.

If they carried on like this Sherlock was sure he was going to pass out. He raised himself up onto his elbows and sat up with John in his lap, spreading his legs wider to make it easier for the other man to continue the friction against him. Sherlock gripped John's back tightly and lifted him higher into his lap, pulling the other man towards him to increase the pressure between them. He threw back his head in pure need, offering himself to John as the other man rested his forehead against his neck, and moved his hand down to touch Sherlock's penis gently, hesitantly. The detective grunted and thrust upwards at John's caress. John's fingers curled around his arousal and he began to stroke and rub Sherlock with dizzying results.

John sat back on his haunches as he pleasured him, and then moved up the other man's legs, grinding unbearably along the length of Sherlock's erection until he was astride him again, toying with the detective's vulnerable state. Sherlock gasped and squeezed his eyes tightly shut, moving John onto his back. John blinked at him in confusion as Sherlock shifted and turned him so that the younger man was on top of him. His breath hitched as Sherlock grinned at him devilishly and nudged his legs a little wider apart. John consented and the other man settled himself between his knees, carefully positioning himself, brushing John's entrance as the doctor arched his back in anticipation. He caught John's gaze briefly, checking that he was comfortable. The older man said nothing, just brought a hand round to press against the small of Sherlock's back, bringing the detective closer to him with a pleading whimper. Sherlock needed no further encouragement, he pushed gently forwards, penetrating the other man with a gasp, and began thrusting inside John with increasing pressure and urgency.

Sherlock ran his fingers along John's spine and kneaded the muscle across his shoulder blades, digging his nails into the other man's flesh as he felt the strain of his climax drawing near. The doctor gave a strangled cry of pain and sensitivity as Sherlock pushed deeper into him. Sherlock's hand wrapped around his waist and John whimpered as the younger man took his erection in hand and began to touch him with unbearable skill, drawing out the other man's groans of enjoyment. John fisted his hands into Sherlock's hair, his hips rolling in their own to the swells and undulations of their combined ecstasy. As he felt the beautiful man writhing and rutting atop him John battled in agony to hold on and ride out his orgasm. Finally he surrendered to Sherlock, crying out as he came. His back arched and the frenzied rutting ended as he stiffened and went jelly legged with the force of his own sexual exhilaration. John buried his face in Sherlock's neck and breathed heavily, eventually collapsing under the other man. Sherlock followed soon after, shouting John's name in the heat of the moment, ejaculating violently inside him and gasping a few shuddering breaths before falling limply against his lover. He pulled out of John, rolling over onto his side with his blogger wrapped tightly in his arms.

John panted fiercely, feeling the heat reseeding from his body. Shivering, Sherlock pulled him closer and hugged him. The detective kissed him over and over, his hair, his lips his neck, circling John in his arms and pressing their warm sticky bodies together. John cringed at the feeling of his own semen lubricating his crotch against Sherlock's thigh as the other man wrapped his leg over John. Sherlock didn't seem to mind. On the contrary, he appeared to be grinding gently against him, revelling in the sensation of their limp members against each other. The doctor could feel Sherlock's penis rubbing lightly against his, and he shifted a little and closed his eyes to focus on the perfect heat of their skin touching like he had always dreamed, struck by the realisation of what they had just done he was filled with a swell of pure happiness and contentment.

Then, much to his surprise, he cried. A single, wet tear welled in the corner of his eye and trickled down his cheek, dripping onto the detective's neck. Sherlock jumped, and raised his head in shock as John scrubbed angrily at his eyes. "Sorry" He muttered, "God, what a stupid thing to do" He chided himself, but Sherlock caught his hand in his.

"John" He breathed "John it's ok" Sherlock caressed the doctor's cheek with his thumb and wiped away the traces of the tear. "Are you hurt, did I hurt you?" He asked, worrying John's hairline with his fingers in his distress.

"No! Sherlock that was...marvellous. Thank you" John said quietly as Sherlock bent his head and pressed his lips to John's forehead.

"I love you" Sherlock whispered, stroking John's back soothingly "so much" He added, his hands moving up and down the other man's naked body, mapping every inch of him and memorising every freckle and scar on the tanned skin.

"I love you too" John replied, losing himself in Sherlock's embrace. The detective nuzzled John's neck affectionately, cuddling into the warmth of the other man's body wrapped around his own long limbs. It felt so perfect and so right, to have his John, his blogger, falling asleep in his arms after they had made love so passionately. They lay in Sherlock's bed for a long time, the sheet twisted around their waists and their heartbeats slowing. Sherlock could feel the beginnings of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth when he thought of all the time they would have to be with each other. He envisioned John, tanned and naked beneath him, touching him and making love to him in their eternity they had together. Sherlock couldn't think of a better way to spend it.

Occasionally one of them would move or shift positions in the other's arms, and the friction would cause their breath to hitch. Having this new, vulnerable, naked Sherlock curled around him was something he could get very used to indeed, John reflected as he slipped his knee between the other man's spread legs. Sherlock hummed in approval, rubbing his nose against John's ear and the back of his neck in appreciation. Soon both men became tired, and so they cuddled closer, slipping into a light contented sleep. 'Sex is by far the best way to burn calories' Sherlock remembered reading once, before he closed his eyes and let himself be carried off by exhaustion into the realm of dream.

There was a loud intrusive knock on the front door.

"Sherlock, John, get out here RIGHT NOW!" Lestrade yelled furiously.

John's head snapped up in startled, wide eyed shock. Sherlock groaned and let his head fall back against the pillow, throwing out an arm and tugging John down next to him for a quick loving kiss. Sherlock rolled on top of his lover and they both smiled in recognition of their dishevelled state. Sherlock sighed with regret and clambered out of bed, the sheet falling from his body to expose his frankly gorgeous arse. John admired him briefly, before coughing lightly and reaching down to pass Sherlock a tissue to clean himself up. The detective nodded in recognition and wiped the tissue to clean up the sticky fluid on his body. He pulled his jeans on to cover himself, tugging his shirt on and buttoning it up over his chest.

"I mean it you two; we need to have a serious talk about NEVER DOING THIS AGAIN!"

Sherlock took one last, long look at his doctor before he went to open the door. John raised himself up onto his elbows and winked at him.

"We are so doing this again." He said.

Fin.


	10. Chapter 10

**Well, what did you think? Please don't hate me, and review! Here's a little add-on for the previous chapter because I was bored. x**

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><p>Sherlock returned a few moments later, having got rid of Lestrade and promised their presence at Scotland Yard tomorrow. He shut the door with a sigh, falling against it with relief. John wandered out of Sherlock's bedroom with nothing but his boxers on, his slightly podgy belly poking out over the waistband. The detective smiled to himself, pushing off from the door and sauntering over to his new lover. John leant into the strong arms which wrapped around his waist, melting against the soft lips which kissed his neck tenderly.<p>

Sherlock buried his nose in the crook of John's neck, pressing light kisses to his hairline. John closed his eyes. "I could get used to this" He murmured. Sherlock hummed in response.

"You know I thought this would be weird, but it feels _right._" John began "Like I've been waiting my whole life to-"

"Get into my pants?" Sherlock cut in with amusement. John hit him on the arm which was draped over his hip and currently idly playing with the waistband of his boxers. Sherlock shifted against him, cradling the other man's head in the crook of his arm.

"Yeah well, that too. You are unbearably sexy when you wake up in the morning by the way. You have no idea how hard it was not to jump you every day at breakfast." There was a low chuckle from somewhere in the vicinity of his shoulder blades.

"I can assure you the feeling was mutual" Sherlock replied, kissing John's bare skin and making adorable little snuffling noises in his ear as he nosed the other man's hair.

"What I meant was, I just feel like I've been waiting for you, like you're my reward for my shitty luck so far. You're everything I've always wanted; there is no way I am letting you go." John illustrated this last point by turning his body in the other man's arms and kissing him lovingly. Sherlock tensed, his fingers digging into John's hip and pulling him closer.

"Consider the sentiment returned, Doctor Watson" He said, cupping the shorter man's head in his long fingered hand and twisting the hair at the nape of his neck, eliciting a soft whimper of contentment from the other man cuddled in his arms.

-xx-

Mrs Hudson pushed open the door of her tenants flat with one hand, cradling the tray of tea and biscuits in her arms. What she saw when she opened the door was startling, but also rather pleasing to see at last. John Watson lay curled in Sherlock's arms on the sofa. He was almost completely naked except for his boxers, and Sherlock wore hastily a thrown on shirt and trousers, very obviously crumpled and picked up from the bedroom floor. Their hair was delightfully ruffled and mussed up, like eager finger had been raking through it. They breathed deeply, and Mrs Hudson would have been inclined to think that they were asleep were it not for the fact that Sherlock would occasionally shift a little to kiss the other man's forehead, and the doctor would smile and pull him closer. 'Finally' the elderly lady thought to herself. It was about time they were shagging. The sexual tension in that flat had been painful. She could practically feel it seeping through the walls.

Mrs Hudson smiled knowingly to herself, happy that Sherlock and John had found each other at last. She made a mental note to buy earplugs. Her boys were loud at the best of times, and she didn't want to be hearing _that_ particular night time activity at four in the morning thank-you-very-much.

Sherlock tugged at John and pulled the other man into his lap, nosing his ear gently and whispering "I love you" over and over again like a prayer. John opened his eyes, gazing at Sherlock for a moment. The detective looked at him with complete all encompassing devotion. "I love you too" He replied. Sherlock kissed him sweetly.

"Always?" He asked, lacing their fingers together and raising his arm to brush his lover's cheek hesitantly.

"Forever." John replied.

Mrs Hudson closed the door.


	11. Chapter 11

**No idea where this came from, another sexy chapter for you lovely people, enjoy! ~K**

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><p>"John for God's sake, go over there and talk to her!"<p>

"Sherlock we agreed, I am not going to flirt with a perfect stranger just to help you with the case!"

The detective pouted angrily. "I need this alibi John; you know it's all that the suspect needs to be released. Do it for me, please?" He pressed a gentle kiss to his partner's lips. The doctor sighed reluctantly, weaving his fingers into the other man's hair and pulling him down to whisper in his ear.

"Fine, promise you won't get jealous?" He teased, nudging Sherlock lightly. The detective frowned.

"Pfft, please. Me? Get jealous? I know nothing of this feeling you speak of!" He grinned, putting on a mock indignant tone which was not entirely false. Satisfied, John smiled back at him and kissed him sweetly once more. "Hmm, very nice now go!" Sherlock pushed him in the direction of the voluptuous blonde perched on the bar stool.

John approached her nervously, his palms were sweating and his breath was coming short and ragged. This was like his school years all over again. He remembered it well; the desperate hope and fear as he was about to attempt to ask a girl out, he hadn't felt it in years. Sure, when it was Sherlock he was scared and anxious, but he knew deep down that it would work out, it was just _right._ This, generating a spark out of nowhere with someone he wasn't even attracted to, this was so unnatural and awkward.

He hazarded a glance back towards the shadows of the bar where his lover lurked in the murky half-light cast by the neon sign outside. Just one look, then John would be OK. He could do this if he knew that Sherlock was waiting for him out of his line of vision, where John could run back to him and kiss him and hold him like he wanted. He was aware that there was a time when he would have been lusting over women like this ditsy blonde before him. Now his entire scope of desire was narrowed down to sharp high cheekbones and curling dark hair, narrow hips and plump beautiful bowed lips...

He was getting distracted.

John cleared his throat, "Hi, I'm John" he began. Great start, now, where to go from there...

* * *

><p>Sherlock watched as his partner made his way to the bar, trying not to make it obvious that he was admiring his arse as he went. John really did have an infuriating habit of swinging his hips like that which made Sherlock lose control of his senses and want to jump him then and there. The detective dug his fingernails into the flesh of his hands, exercising restraint. He was both relieved and disappointed when John took his seat and his spectacular view was obscured.<p>

Then he saw it, so slight at first, so meaningless and petty, but there all the same. The woman was reacting accordingly to John's advances, touching his arm occasionally, laughing at his rubbish jokes. And they were rubbish, Sherlock knew they were rubbish, but it was one of those things he loved about John anyway. She was even, oh god no, she was even _biting her lip? _Now that was just weird on anyone besides John. Regardless, she was doing all the right things to show her attraction. But John, his John, did something Sherlock had never expected. He watched, mortified, as his lover placed his hand on this bimbo's thigh. Not only that, but he began to stroke gentle circles on her bare skin.

Sherlock gasped inadvertently, staggering against the wall. This was something he hadn't planned for; the raw, animal instinct that was overcoming him. His feelings were so intensely possessive that he had to close his eyes for a moment, unable to bear the sight of the love of his life making eyes at another person.

He took a deep breath, trying to rationalize the feelings bubbling up in his chest, the anger and betrayal he could feel. Sherlock opened his eyes, watching the couple talking in hushed tones. John was edging closer to her, smiling that wonderful secretive smile, licking his lips and brushing their knees carefully. But that smile, Sherlock could hardly stand it. That smile was for him, and him only!

He tipped his head back, letting it rest against the window behind him. Sherlock had to control this. This was idiotic! He could suppress his urges if he just shut off his brain for a moment, focus on the work, the work was all that mattered, just as it had been before John came into his life.

He tried oh, Sherlock tried, but as soon as he opened his eyes again they were still there. That bloody woman was almost in John's lap now, touching his chest. No. Oh god no.

Her fingers were stroking over the point on John's shoulder, the exact area where the scar tissue was the most sensitive. Sherlock watched in horror as a flicker of pain and discomfort passed over his partner's face. Nobody, and he meant NOBODY was going to hurt his John.

Sherlock launched himself across the room, marching angrily towards the woman, he was aware of a low growling sound rippling in his throat like an animal, he didn't care. This ended now.

"Sherlock!" John exclaimed, throwing the woman off his lap and staring at him like he had just burnt down the kitchen, which was not an uncommon look between the pair to be honest.

"DON'T YOU DARE TOUCH HIM!" Sherlock roared at the blonde, he pulled John towards him and clasped his body to his chest possessively.

"I-I-I-don't –I" She stammered. "W-why?"

"BECAUSE HE IS MINE AND I LOVE HIM, THAT'S WHY!" Sherlock grabbed John and pulled him up to kiss him passionately, wrapping his arms around him in desperation to get closer to the smaller man.

John laughed in disbelief as he was dragged away from the emptying bar by his hand, held in the iron like grip of the consulting detective. Sherlock was seething with pent up sexual frustration and ferocious masculinity which dominated his personality. He tugged John around the corner into the street, hailing a cab and practically throwing the other man inside. "221B Baker Street, quickly!" He said to the driver, his knees jiggling with anticipation.

John had no idea what had brought on this new angry, primal look in his lovers eyes, but oh, he loved it.

They didn't say a word for the entire journey, John risking glances at his lover occasionally, Sherlock holding their hands tightly between them.

They drew up at Baker Street, and Sherlock paid the driver quickly, dragging John up the stairs and through the flat straight into his bedroom. "Sherlock what is going on?" John panted. Sherlock turned to him, whirling round and crushing John's body against the wall.

"I'm jealous, that's what! I thought I could take it but I was wrong, I can't do it John, YOU ARE MINE, MINE!" Sherlock shouted, pressing John's chest flush against his. The doctor gasped at the stab of heat in his groin as Sherlock latched onto his neck, sucking and biting his sensitive skin, branding him.

"Yes! Yes!" He cried, pulling at Sherlock's hair, his clothes, tearing them off of the other man's body, the arousal taking hold of him. "Oh God, Sherlock YES!" John moaned as he was pushed roughly onto the bed.

"SAY IT!" Sherlock growled, his voice deep and seductive, wrenching open John's shirt and burying his nose in John's scent, running his lips up and down the other man's body. Sherlock stroked his hair, his back, letting the animalistic impulses overcome him.

"I'm yours, Sherlock; I'll always be yours, no one else's!" John said obediently, arching into the other man as his fingers toyed with the zip of his trousers.

"Mine..." Sherlock whispered, licking his lips and climbing on top of the doctor. "Mine."

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><p>The detective stirred, the sheet falling from his hips. His eyes fluttered open to find John next to him, his hands behind his head, a devious smile playing on his lips. The doctor noticed his eventual movement, turning his head to face him. Sherlock lifted his head, rubbing his hand over his eyes blearily, the last dregs of adrenaline seeping from his pores.<p>

"Morning" He rumbled, rolling over and cuddling John to his chest.

"Good morning to you too" John replied, arching an eyebrow, wondering when Sherlock was going to remember the earth shattering sex from last night. The detective stiffened, pulling away from his lover, eyes scanning feverishly over his naked body, calculating his every movement to assess his level of pain.

"John, John I'm so sorry, I don't know what came over me I, I didn't want to hurt you" Sherlock brushed the purpling bruises forming over John's neck and chest where his lips had attacked his skin in a fit of passion.

"Now you listen to me, there is no way on earth I am letting you apologise for that frankly amazing night. You are quite rough when you know what you want Mr Holmes, I'll give you that, but there are times when that's what I want." John said, stroking the other man's hair affectionately. "Although, I am curious as to how you managed to give my left nipple a love bite..."

"Oh" was all the detective could think to say.

Sherlock reached up and placed gentle fingertips on his lover's jaw to turn his head, gasping at the angry red and purple welts blotching his wonderful skin.

John laughed, "That's nothing, cup of tea and I'll be right as rain." Sherlock kissed him on the lips hungrily.

"You're sure?" He asked, kissing a path over John' chest and neck then back up again.

"...Well if you continue doing that we are never leaving this bed again, I can tell you that much" The detective chuckled and released his grip. "I do have something to confess to, however" John began.

"Oh?" Sherlock replied, running his hands over John's chest and moving down his legs, absently lingering on the inside of his thigh. John made a sound which sounded a lot like 'gnagh' and slapped the detective's hands away so he could think straight.

"Yes, I seem to have got a bit carried away when you were...doing all those things. To be sure, I'm going to need you to turn over."

"Yes doctor" Sherlock winked at him before rolling to lie on his chest. He smiled as he heard John's breath hitch at the sight of him. He felt a delicate touch trailing between his shoulder blades and down his spine, finally coming to rest on his arse. John laughed at the bemused expression on his partner's face.

"Here" he said, his hand cupping the exact point on Sherlock's body where he had caused him harm. Sherlock craned his neck to see his own backside, chuckling at the sight before him. John lifted his warm touch from his body and let him view the five little blotches on his pale skin, exactly in alignment with the digits of John's fingers. He rolled his eyes, stroking a hand along John's arm, "It's all fine" he said, pulling the good doctor towards him and touching their skin at every available point on their naked bodies, just wanting to be close to his lover. They kissed lazily for some moments, Sherlock breathing in John's scent, letting his hands idly explore the other man's body.

John wriggled into his touch, closing his eyes as the detective began letting his fingers linger more intimately on his person. He moved to whisper into Sherlock's ear. "I think I can manage to administer a few more red marks to that lovely pale skin of yours if you're up for it" He said, moving his hands to cup Sherlock's arse nonchalantly, giving it an experimental squeeze and releasing him.

Sherlock sighed "You are incredible, have I told you that?" he said, slipping his leg carefully between John's thighs.

"That's something I never tire of hearing" John replied, twisting his fingers into Sherlock's hair as he could feel the growing hardness between them. His hand jerked and he pulled on Sherlock's hair, the detective grunted and thrust into him.

"Doctor Watson likes it rough does he?" He growled, settling comfortably against his lover's pelvis and dragging their bodies together.

John pushed Sherlock back against the pillows, hands still fisted in his hair; he climbed atop the detective and locked their bodies together. "He does indeed" He rumbled, pushing into him in one swift, violent movement, the action manifesting itself in a mixture of intense pleasure and pain for the detective.

Sherlock screamed.


	12. Chapter 12

"Bloody hell it's cold out there!" John exclaimed, throwing his gloves and scarf in a pile on the floor and shucking his coat. Sherlock followed him in and gracefully removed his gloves and unwound the scarf from his long pale neck. He hummed his agreement, striding past the doctor and walking purposefully into the living room. John watched in interest as the detective knelt by the fireplace and piled logs from a basket into the grate.

Sherlock lit the fire and fed it coal until it was crackling merrily. John stood by the sofa and watched him. The detective turned and smiled at John happily. "I thought you might need warming up" He said, standing and carefully brushing the soot from his clothes. John took Sherlock in his arms and kissed him sweetly.

"Thank you" He murmured against his chest, listening to the rhythmic thrum of his heart.

"Come and sit down, I won't be a moment" Sherlock offered, gesturing to the sofa, which he had pulled up close to the fire and draped in the soft blanket from the back of the doctor's chair. John frowned as the other man disappeared into the kitchen, and settled himself onto the sofa. The gradual warmth of the room seeping into his pores and the comfort of home made the doctor drowsy, and it wasn't long before he was dozing off.

Sherlock returned to find his lover peacefully sleeping, and set the mugs of hot chocolate on the side table while scuttling off to fetch the duvet from his bedroom along the hall. The detective draped the duvet over the other man and sat beside him, cuddling into his warmth. John woke to find Sherlock gazing at him adoringly. "Sorry" He mumbled, stirring a little and resting his head against Sherlock's shoulder. The taller man kissed his hair and wrapped his arms around him.

After a while, Sherlock spoke in his gravely tones, snapping John out of his blessed out state nestled against him. "I don't know about you John, but personally I am getting a bit too warm in all these clothes, what do you say we shed a few layers?" He drawled, stroking the doctor's arms temptingly.

"That sounds like a pretty fantastic idea" John replied, "Will you be needing some help with that tight shirt of yours?"

"Do you know, I think I might...gentle now." Sherlock purred, shifting to face the smaller man. John unbuttoned Sherlock's silk shirt slowly, relishing the little huffs of contentment from his lover. They kissed lazily, Sherlock nuzzling John's shoulder and breathing in his scent. Sherlock's fingers trailed down to John's belt and unfastened it, playing with the zip of his jeans teasingly.

They continued their slow measured undressing, happy to feel the gradual brushes of skin against skin, tan against white. Sherlock raised an eyebrow as he slipped John's boxers over his hips and helped him kick them to one side. They lay together naked beneath the duvet, toasting their feet in the heat from the fire. John snuggled closer to Sherlock, making sure their bodies were as close as they could be. Their combined body heat warmed them up considerably, and they lay wrapped around each other, comfortable just to be close and intimate with the other person. John reached around Sherlock's waist and cheekily squeezed his arse. The detective jumped and grinned, tangling his legs with John's and edging down his body to touch their noses. "I love you" John murmured, pressing his forehead against Sherlock's and closing his eyes. Sherlock's heart swelled with compassion, and he scooped up John's body next to him, pulling him almost into his lap. He swung his legs up onto the sofa and lay with John on top of him, his arms behind John's back. The doctor touched a gentle healing hand to Sherlock's cheek and kissed him, melting under those beautiful soft lips. Then John slithered down Sherlock's body, disappearing beneath the duvet and stroking his hands along the detective's chest and coming to rest on his hips. He felt John's hair tickling his abdomen and his thighs settling against his shins, getting into position. Sherlock's eyes widened as John took him in his mouth; his hand went under the duvet to clutch at John's hair as the doctor kissed along the length of his arousal and gently flicked the tip with his tongue maddeningly. "Jo-oh-n" He moaned, arching into his lover desperately. Sherlock's internal monologue twittered away merrily to itself along the lines of 'oh god this is fantastic...yes...there...fuck.' until it got the point where it said 'what is this...oh...his teeth...dear lord...no...I can't-' at which point it short-circuited.

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><p>Mycroft Holmes paused at the top of the steps, his umbrella swinging lazily from his arm. His hand was on the doorknob of flat 221B when he heard a low guttural growl from the other side of the door, followed by a short breathy chuckle and a gasp of surprise. He was intrigued, about to enter the flat when there came the distinctive voice of his younger brother, although a little gruffer than usual, and an unmistakable moan of pleasure which sounded alarmingly like Doctor Watson. He stopped himself calling out to check if everything was alright, listening as there came the sound of laboured breathing, punctuated by grunts and sensual moans of two men engaged in sexual activity. "John!" Came a cry from the flat, and after a few moments more, "Oh god yes...John..." Mycroft jumped, trying valiantly to clear the mental images from his mind and started down the steps.<p>

"Sherlock, please, harder!" That was definitely John Watson. Mycroft squeezed his eyes shut and picked up his pace as the screams of their combined orgasm drifted down the stairs.

Mycroft hurried out to the waiting car, sliding into the back seat, his eyes wide with shock. "Are you quite alright sir?" The driver asked.

"Yes...yes I'm fine. We'll drop off that information some other time I think Daniel." The elder Holmes replied, the sound of his little brother reaching climax still ringing clear in his ears.

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><p>Sherlock lay contentedly wrapped around the love of his life, his fingers massaging his scalp absently and one hand laced with the doctor's. John sighed and wriggled closer to him, one arm draped over Sherlock's hip and his leg thrown over Sherlock's under the duvet. The fire was dying and the darkness had crept into the little flat, filling the room with a quiet speculative atmosphere. "Did I mention that I love you?" Sherlock whispered, not wanting to ruin the silence. He kissed John's forehead and waited patiently for him to answer, pulling the blanket up under their chins to cover their naked bodies.<p>

"Yes, you do mention it, frequently in fact" John said with a smile, running his hand over the detective's arm and hugging him tightly.

"Good. I feel like I never say it enough..." Sherlock mused. John rolled his eyes.

"I know you love me, you don't have to tell me all the time...although it never hurts to hear you say it." John said, rubbing his feet against Sherlock's ankle.

"No matter how much I say it," Sherlock murmured, "it'll never be enough to show you how much you mean to me."

John didn't know what to say, he craned his neck up and kissed Sherlock over and over again until they were both breathless and grinning.

"You are rather gorgeous did you know that?" Sherlock asked, touching John's face gently and sweeping his brow with his fingertips, tracing his hairline where the grey hairs flecked the sandy fluff of his boyfriend's fringe. He brushed down John's chest and lifted the duvet enough to peek under at their bodies curled together, marvelling and at John in his full glory. John blushed and tugged the cover up to his chin. Sherlock raised an eyebrow and rolled into John's arms, cuddling the smaller man to his chest and slipping his hand between them carefully. Sherlock almost laughed aloud as the cheeky smile spread over his lover's face. John placed his hand on Sherlock's hip and pulled his body closer. John's eyes fluttered closed and he beamed from ear to ear as Sherlock rubbed him gently.

"Again?" He asked. The detective nodded,

"Exactly how tired are you dear?"

"Not very" John replied, clutching at Sherlock's back and digging his nails into his muscle.

"Well then we have all night...And I'm just getting started"


	13. Chapter 13

**Thanks to MrsCumberbatch for the idea! Go read her stuff guys, she's amazing. x**

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><p>John looked at the rows upon rows of expensive clothes, the money Sherlock had stuffed into his hand felt like a dead weight in his pocket. He bitterly wished he could return it to his lover, but the detective had threatened him with that bloody riding crop if he didn't go out and spend it in one of those heinously overpriced stores he frequented.<p>

John considered Sherlock's threat as he fingered the silk fabric of a deep blue shirt thoughtfully, and realized that it really wasn't that terrifying as the imposing and devilishly handsome man had make it sound. Sherlock with riding crop...now that was intriguing.

Mr Watson had quite emphatically lost all trace of coherent thought, and was somewhere drifting in the ether along with imagined images of one consulting detective putting the famed riding crop to excellent use.

"May I be of assistance sir?" A young man asked pleasantly from somewhere near John's elbow. He realized with a dash of embarrassment that he had been standing there for a good ten minutes hazy eyed and stroking a shirt.

"Uh, no, thanks, I'm just going to..." He looked at the skirt fabric still caught tightly between his fingers "try this on, thanks." He muttered, grabbing for the shirt and making his way to the changing rooms, a deep crimson blush creeping into his cheeks.

He had to practically fight off three other over-eager shop assistants before he finally made his way to the roped off area reserved for trying on clothes. John followed the pretty woman to the changing rooms. He may have been mistaken, but the doctor was sure she was flirting with him, shooting him casual winks and indulgent smiles on the short trip to the allocated changing room. He returned the smile pleasantly, wondering if there was a certain way he could show her that he absolutely was not interested with that simple action. John decided to establish a smile which plainly said 'I'm terribly sorry madam but I like cock' or something along those lines...

John walked into the little room, which was lavishly yet needlessly designed with a small bed, a thick shag pile carpet, and intricate embroideries draping the walls. He did a double take, who put a goddamn bed in a changing room? John rolled his eyes; Sherlock probably knew how much this shop would annoy him. He threw his jacket on the bed and stripped off his shirt. The doctor paused for a moment, staring at his bare torso with distress. He was putting on weight again, that pecan pie Mrs Hudson had baked for them hadn't done him any favours in the long run. He tugged the luxurious shirt off the hanger, sweeping it over his shoulders and beginning to button it up.

John didn't notice the feint swish of the curtain or the presence of the other man in the room until he appeared in the mirror with his wonderful lop sided smile and his dark tousled hair. "Sherlock" John jumped, and the detective chuckled.

"Darling" He replied, moving forwards swiftly with the grace and speed of a cat. He captured John's lips momentarily, smiling into the kiss and biting none too gently on the doctor's lower lip to make him moan as only he knew how.

Sherlock ran his hands over John's chest, skimming his nipple and pressing him into the mirror. The doctor could feel the desperation and raw desire behind his lover's actions, and he gave him what he wanted, pushing Sherlock onto the little bed and tearing off his jeans like they were on fire. He stripped off his lover's clothes, throwing them to separate corners of the room and mounted him, straddling his legs and rocking his hips in slow maddening circles against Sherlock's. The detective threw back his head and opened his mouth to cry out in his ecstasy, but John clamped a hand over his lips and shook his head warningly. Sherlock whimpered as the doctor moved against him, his hands fisting in the bed sheets and his breath coming short and ragged. "Oh John..." He whispered, his back arching into the doctor as his pleasure intensified and a soft moan escaped his parted lips. "John"

* * *

><p>"That colour suits you" Sherlock gasped, collapsing onto the bed, which John had suddenly found himself becoming very grateful for. The detective sat up and began retrieving his scattered items of clothing from about the small room. His coat, the only part of his outfit he had kept on due to John's request, billowed around his naked body, and John admired from his place on the bed. The deep blue shirt remained covering the top part of his body, but he too was otherwise completely in the buff. They dressed quickly, grinning at each other privately and occasionally bumping into each other in the small space. John left the changing room first, attempting to be nonchalant about the fact that his partner had just ambushed him and made passionate love to him on that ridiculous bed with the shop assistant standing just outside.<p>

* * *

><p>"Any good?" The female shop assistant asked pleasantly, that stupid grin plastered on her pretty face. John smiled, gripping the shirt tightly.<p>

"Oh yes," He replied "very good."


	14. Chapter 14

It was a calm day at Baker Street. Sherlock hadn't had a case for a few days, and John was just beginning to get tired of the moans and sighs the detective threw his way from the end of the sofa where he was sprawled over his partner's warm feet which wriggled beneath him pleasantly. Sherlock let his head loll back lazily and stared vacantly at the ceiling, contemplating the new cracks in the plaster he suspected had been put there by his own hand in one of his bouts of insufferable boredom.

John frowned as Sherlock sighed yet again. The doctor reached down and felt between the sofa cushion and his leg for the other man's cold hand. He found it and twined their fingers together comfortingly, stroking his thumb over Sherlock's knuckles lovingly as he read the paper. Sherlock said nothing, but a tender smile graced his lips as he squeezed John's hand. He liked having someone there who made the nagging discomfort of the unoccupied mind slightly more bearable. Sherlock tried to still the constant swarming of the unconnected thoughts which flitted about his brain trying valiantly to lodge themselves in his consciousness. It was no use.

John set down the paper and stared fixedly at his partner. Sherlock did nothing.

The detective raised an eyebrow as John pulled his feet from under him and stood up, crossing the short distance to stand before him and smile lopsidedly. John rested his knees against the sofa and slowly climbed over Sherlock, straddling his lap teasingly. Sherlock smiled, running a single finger over John's chest contemplatively and leaning forwards to kiss him.

Having a mind as great as that of Sherlock Holmes was as much a curse as it was a blessing. Although there were times when the detective slipped into that dreadful dark pit of depression, he knew now that John Watson would always be there to pull him out again.

As John's hands worked slowly at the buttons of his shirt, Sherlock considered this, and realised that there was not one place in the entire world he would rather be at this moment than in the arms of the man he loved.

This, right here, was his own perfect paradise.

Sherlock smiled.

* * *

><p><strong>Just a little ficlet I found from some time ago. Hope you enjoyed it! Also, I plan to do a lot more fanfiction writing now that my exams are over, so if you like my stories, hopefully I'll be uploading some more soon! Thanks for reading! xx<strong>


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